Upon the afternoon of which I now speak, in the midsummer of
the year of grace 1621, as I sat upon my doorstep, my long pipe
between my teeth and my eyes upon the pallid stream below, my
thoughts were busy with these matters, - so busy that I did not see
a horse and rider emerge from the dimness of the forest into the
cleared space before my palisade, nor knew, until his voice came
up the bank, that my good friend, Master John Rolfe, was without
and would speak to me.

I went down to the gate, and, unbarring it, gave him my hand and
led the horse within the inclosure.

"Thou careful man!" he said, with a laugh, as he dismounted.
"Who else, think you, in this or any other hundred, now bars his
gate when the sun goes down?"

"It is my sunset gun," I answered briefly, fastening his horse as I
spoke.

He put his arm about my shoulder, for we were old friends, and
together we went up the green bank to the house, and, when I had
brought him a pipe, sat down side by side upon the doorstep.

"Of what were you dreaming?" he asked presently, when we had
made for ourselves a great cloud of smoke. "I called you twice."

"I was wishing for Dale's times and Dale's laws."

He laughed, and touched my knee with his hand, white and smooth
as a woman's, and with a green jewel upon the forefinger.